This Ivory Tower
by lonelyprinces
Summary: One-shot, angsty Vikturi. Viktor has always known how alone he is.


Yuuri isn't entirely surprised to find that Viktor's apartment is much like the rest of him—modern and upscale, but not irritatingly so. Everything knows its place, from the shelves of colorful glass bottles to the airy loft with the spacious platform bed. And then, of course, the gauzy curtains, the enormous window that overlooks the St. Petersburg metro.

Yuuri heaves a sigh. It's easy to imagine waking up here every morning, in this quiet space while the city—the world, really—continues its muffled existence fifteen stories below. With all the seasonal training, a lull in the action is a rare luxury indeed.

"It's beautiful," Yuuri says aloud, taking in every bit of the room he can. "Peaceful. Quiet."

He's spoken too soon, for Makkachin has just barrelled into the open loft and leapt up onto Viktor's bed, tongue lolling as she wriggles her bottom in the air.

"Ma-kka- _chin_ ," Viktor protests, plopping down beside the dog and running a hand through curly brown fur. "Well, Yuuri?" he asks suddenly. "Could you see yourself being happy here?"

"Of course," Yuuri says, a flush spreading over his cheeks. "Though I'd be happy wherever we lived, Viktor."

"I'm glad to hear it." Viktor smiles, though it's not one that reaches his eyes. He looks around the open room quizzically, as though he's only just discovering his apartment for the first time. Heaving a sigh, followed by a yawn.

"Tired?" Yuuri asks, taking a seat beside Viktor as Makkachin attempts to burrow her face in between them.

Viktor nods. "Aeroflot takes a year off my life every time."

"Rest, then."

"Mm-hm." And then, as though Viktor's just remembered: "Where are my manners, Yuuri? There's a bath just down the hall, beyond the kitchen. Clean yourself up, if you like. I can't guarantee I'll be awake when you return, though."

Yuuri nods, leaning in and kissing the inside of Viktor's jaw as his love blinks sleepily. Working his way up to that mouth, smiling against each tender caress.

"Of course, Viktor. I'll be back soon."

"You do that, _solnyshko_ ," Viktor breathes, his smile meeting his eyes this time.

* * *

The tub, save for its dark, clawed feet, is just as plain and barren as the rest of the apartment. Towels hang from a sleek dark rack, each in their place, muted grays and whites and blues. Even as the bath fills with water, as the air is filled with steam and Yuuri's balmy shampoo, something is missing, somehow.

It occurs to Yuuri only as the tub is draining—as he leans against cold, white porcelain—that there are no photographs in the bathroom—not even the artsy, decorative kind. He can't remember there being any out in the living room, either, nor in the loft. Maybe it doesn't matter, although it seems that it should, Viktor being, well … _Viktor_ and all.

When he pads out into the loft again, the sky has grown dark—the kind of dark without stars. Viktor is buried under his fluffy white duvet while Makkachin snoozes on the wood-paneled floor. Yuuri, wrapped in one of Viktor's robes, slips in beside him.

"You smell nice, _lapotchka_ ," Viktor says quietly, breath warm against Yuuri's ear.

"Mm." Yuuri smooths Viktor's hair back from his forehead. "Sleep well, Viktor."

Yuuri always feels the warmest curled up against Viktor's side like this, listening as his love's breaths become heavy with sleep. How is it that this snug cocoon can exist, when the room surrounding it feels so hollow, somehow?

* * *

"Let's go somewhere, Yuuri, anywhere!" Viktor begs, spreading jam over his toast as he perches at the center island. His toes wriggle from under cotton pajama bottoms with barely-contained excitement.

"We just got back …" Yuuri sighs, rolling over onto his back and peeking over at Viktor across the room. Sunlight streams in through the large front window, white and blinding even while shrouded in a plump mass of clouds. The light does nothing to make Viktor look any less stunning, of course.

" _Yuu_ -ri, you're so lazy."

"It's peaceful here," Yuuri insists. "Down in the city? Utter chaos."

Viktor pouts. "Don't you like the chaos sometimes?"

"There's never a quiet moment at Yu-Topia. It's sort of nice to have a break." Yuuri considers his parents' affable banter, the mischievous Nishigori triplets, the bubbling onsen and its raucous bathers. He wonders if he would, in fact, choose Viktor's quiet loft over the constant buzz of familial affection. Maybe for a little while, yes, but certainly not all the time.

 _Definitely_ not all the time.

"Viktor," Yuuri says, sitting up at last, "What do you do when you're home, anyway, during the off-season? Any restaurants I should know about? Ski resorts? A little grandmother up in the mountains who makes her guests fresh _pirozhki_?"

Viktor's expression falters for a moment, though his face twists back into its familiar smile almost as quickly as it disappears. "Wouldn't you like that!" he laughs, taking a huge bite of toast and licking the jam daintily from his lips. "I'll take you to an open rink today, all right? And if you're lucky I'll dig up one of my decrepit ancestors, _pirozhki_ and everything."

Yuuri considers this last sentence perhaps a moment longer than necessary; Viktor, by contrast, changes the subject completely.

* * *

"How has it only been three days?" Yuuri moans, removing his skates and peeling off his socks. His nails are caked with dirt, his feet covered in blisters. "If I don't keep up my daily practice from now on, I'll turn back into a little piggy."

"Perhaps I want you that way, in the off-season," Viktor teases, slipping his own skates into his duffel bag. The locker room is empty, so he takes advantage of the moment and leans in to kiss Yuuri on the mouth. His breaths are thick and fast, whether from being out of practice himself or from the moment of affection, Yuuri's not entirely sure. "Besides, my beautiful pork cutlet bowl, I'm giving you permission to go easy on yourself for a little while. After last season, I should think you deserve it."

" _You're_ giving _me_ permission, hm?" Yuuri says, brows waggling. A deep flush creeps up Viktor's neck. "We can do anything, then, except for heavy training?"

Viktor nods once, the flush deepening.

"Heavy training meaning, then, ice skating. Everything else is fair game—is that right, Viktor?"

"Yuuri," Viktor's mouth trembles as Yuuri swings a leg over, straddling his lap.

"I thought you liked this sort of thing, after that exhibitionist stunt you pulled in front of Phichit-kun. And there was that one time, back in Spain—"

"Yuuri— _ah._ " Viktor leans back—as best he can on a wooden bench, anyway—as Yuuri nips at the hollow of his neck, along an elegant cheekbone. Yuuri must know how he looks, surely, with his dark hair slicked back like that, with his tongue sliding greedily over his lips. Yuuri must know what this does to Viktor.

"Not here." Yuuri's breath is hot in Viktor's ear. "Not in an open locker room when you're wearing that puffy blue coat. I'd feel like I was corrupting you."

"Where?" Viktor asks. He'll go anywhere, anywhere.

"Your place."

"Let's stay out a bit longer."

"We'd be more comfortable there, you know. I'd be sure you were comfortable." Yuuri can hear himself practically purring; only Viktor can flip his switch like this.

Viktor's flush seems to have disappeared—he looks quite pale, actually. "I've been thinking about it, and—well, no, let's just stay out for the rest of the day. We could rent a hotel room, or something."

"With your apartment so close? Besides, Makkachin misses us."

The space between them suddenly feels so far, somehow. Viktor's breathing has slowed, his eyes have lost their sparkle. Yuuri swings his leg around so that he's no longer on Viktor's lap—rather, sitting up straight on the cold wooden bench, hands balled into awkward fists at his sides.

Viktor stands, dusting off his already-pristine trousers. "Of course you're right, Yuuri. It is our home, after all." His voice rises on that last word, as though he's not entirely sure of this himself.

For all his self-assurance earlier, Yuuri is unable to form a response.

* * *

Viktor perches on the edge of their bed, staring out the front window at the bustling thoroughfare below—still bright and hectic, though it's well past midnight. The moon looms just overhead, a large, ever-present eye. He shivers; the green robe he's smuggled from Hasetsu is far too thin, even in a comfortably-heated apartment. Not that he or Yuuri have felt particularly warm lately, in any sense of the word.

"Viktor?" Yuuri tries, pushing himself up from the pillows. "Are you all right?"

"It's nothing, _solnyshko_. Really."

"Do you not want to live here, in Russia? In this apartment?"

"How—" Viktor checks his words. "What do you mean?"

"It is pretty quiet here. You always seemed much more at home with a little, uh, I don't know. Background noise?"

Yuuri can see that Viktor is biting his lip, even in the low light.

"I know the value of the quiet, Yuuri," he says slowly. "But not when it's all the time."

"Viktor?"

"This—this apartment. Being here. I'm not sure I want to be here anymore. Maybe we could go back to Japan? I remember your _mamachka_ saying she would welcome you with open arms anytime. Welcome us." A knot forms in Viktor's throat.

"Come here, Viktor. Please."

Viktor buries himself in Yuuri's side, silver hair thick in his face.

"Yuuri?"

"Hm?"

"I think you know this already, but I'm very envious of you sometimes."

" _Huh?_ " What with all Yuuri's thoughts and theories, his reaction is genuine.

"If I could take you to my _babushka_ in the mountains I would. I'd see to it you had all the _pirozhki_ your little heart desired. But none of that will ever happen. I thought it would be better if I came back to Russia with you, but I don't think anything could make this place better. There are too many memories here."

"Viktor …" Yuuri swallows, smoothing Viktor's hair back in slow, rhythmic motions. Or trying to, anyway. "Please. Explain to me."

"I don't have anyone here," Viktor says slowly. "I haven't, not for awhile. I love skating—I do. But skating had to become everything. I don't think I've had anyone in here besides you, actually, and Yakov a couple times." He lets out a low, bitter laugh. "As far as I know, my parents are still alive and well, but they won't talk to me. Not after my little ice-skating stint. Not when I grew my hair out. Especially not when they found out I favored men."

Yuuri must remind himself to breathe. _One, two, three_ , _one, two—_

"It becomes a habit after a while, I suppose—smiling for cameras, posing with fans. I know just what to say, just how to surprise them every time. I play my role and I return here, to this apartment, to prepare for that role again. When I wasn't practicing, I was here with Makkachin." Viktor looks out into the kitchen, where a curly mop of fur pokes out from under one of the bar stools. "Makkachin knew I had no one to skate for. And now I suppose you do, too."

Yuuri considers the unrelenting porcelain bathtub, the lack of personal objects on the shelves, the white, minimalist furniture. He always knew, somehow, of what Viktor was speaking, though there is something much different about hearing the truth aloud for himself.

"Viktor." Yuuri breathes in and out again. "I don't blame you. If I was in your position, I would envy me, too." He doesn't mean it unkindly—how could he say otherwise, though, given what he has? His family, his friends, his neighbors, the bathhouse's customers, the excited buzz of the TV during an ice-skating event, the smell of his favorite meals being prepared. All of these things, and on top of that, the fact that Viktor—his Viktor—is curled up in his arms at this very moment. Viktor Nikiforov, who loves him more than anyone else, who has chosen to admit to the emptiness he feels so often.

Tears spring to Viktor's eyes; he blinks them away quickly. And then, just like that, they're leaking out again, over his cheeks. His chest heaves in a sob.

"Can we go somewhere else, Yuuri?" His voice is faint, as though it's about to disappear entirely.

"Of course, Viktor. Of course. I'll take you back to Japan. I'll take you anywhere."

"Your place, then."

"Absolutely. And, Viktor?"

"Yuuri?"

"I love you. I've never loved anyone more than you, as you are, right here. Not your public persona, not world-champion Viktor Nikiforov, but _you_ , right now." Of course this is the truth. He loves this man, from his lithe, trembling body to his hiccuping sobs to his fear of the empty, the quiet. This man who could see all that Yuuri had been blessed with, had seen Yuuri brush those same things away without a moment's thought. This man, who could love him anyway.

"I love you, too, _lapotchka_. Thank you."

Viktor's breathing grows slow, his right hand curls against Yuuri's chest in a childlike fist. As soon as he wakes again, Yuuri will take him away, to a world of steaming katsudon bowls and tranquil onsens. He will take Viktor to a place in which these cold apartments—these ivory towers—cannot possibly exist.


End file.
